I woke up hungover, as expected.

In true Hermione fashion, I do not remember everything about last night. However, I am glad that I was lucid enough to get into a real bed last night – even if it is a bed that I don't immediately recognise. At least there is the tell-tale sign of my being in Ginny's spare bedroom.

It's the painting that we bought together at a car boot sale. Ginny loved it so much to let go, while Harry disliked it too much to put it in their bedroom. Or, really, any space that he frequents. They settled on the spare bedroom. I've stayed here a couple of times since they moved in. It's mostly filled with things like the painting; half-loved objects that the two of them can't decide on. Like the bedside tables, for instance. Harry inherited them from his parents, but again they didn't want them in the main bedroom. And he couldn't get rid of them, either. His parents both died in a car crash when he was younger, and they left pretty much everything in trust to him.

So, it's still difficult for him to get rid of anything they left him. Helpful then that the money they left allowed him to buy a big enough house to store most of it, I guess. That makes me sound like an awful person.

I push back the duvet and glance around the room, dim light spilling from underneath heavy curtains. It must be late. Great. To my left is a wrapped gift that I vaguely remember last night. It was from Draco, and I said I would open it in the morning so I could properly appreciate it. What I meant was that drunken Hermione would probably break it.

Sighing, I pick up the wrapped present and start unwrapping it, peeling back the plain brown paper. Under the paper is a small box, and inside that box is a tape player, complete with two tapes. One is labelled 'Awesome Mix Vol.1', from the Guardians of the Galaxy movie we watched together. The other is labelled 'Draco is the best', with no listed tracks. Immediately, I am curious. I put the Draco tape into the player and press play.

The song from the car comes on – the one that was playing when we were driving either to or from the beach – the song by Best Coast. One of my favourite songs.

As I listen to bits and pieces, skipping through parts, I recognise the songs on it, and I'm smiling. When Ginny knocks on the bedroom door and enters, I am grinning at the silly lump of plastic that is filling the room with some of my favourite music that I have shared with Draco.

"What's that?" Ginny asks, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed, clearly nursing a hangover of her own.

I hand it to her. "It's my birthday present from Draco. A mixtape and player."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. I'm guessing the link is in the tapes for the Guardians of the Galaxy thing. Either way, it is just so cool." I shrug, smiling. "Anyway, how are you feeling?"

Ginny puts the tape player down and takes a deep breath. "Shit."

We laugh.

"I think Harry made breakfast, but I haven't been able to go downstairs yet," she tells me, leaning in close as if Harry will hear. "Be brave with me. We need to eat."

"My head says yes, but my stomach says no," I reply. I shift the covers aside anyway and follow her downstairs. On the way, I grab my phone and text Draco to tell him how much I love the gift. And that I will call him later. Because I'm predictable and possibly needy.

Harry drops me back home after breakfast, driving slowly as per my hungover instructions. He hugs me, and then informs me that I am in desperate need of a shower. Harry hovers outside until I am safely indoors before driving off into the distance.

When I step through the front door, I am met with a wad of mail that looks like a backlog from the publishing company. It's as if they have a deadline coming up and they forgot about another box of manuscripts at the back. So not helpful, especially when I am feeling like this. Of course, I kick the papers and the mail and whatnot down the hall, not quite feeling up to bending down and picking them up. Then I haul ass upstairs to get a shower, as instructed by my dear friend.

I call Draco as I'm sitting in front of the television in my dressing gown, with a manuscript on my lap in case I feel the inclination to work.

"Hello?" he says from the other end of the line, a little crackly.

"Hey, Draco, it's Hermione."

"I know, I have caller ID," he chuckles. "It's just unusual for you to call me. What's going on?"

I shrug, then remember he can't see me. "I opened your gift and I wanted to say thank you. I love it."

"I'm glad you like it."

"It's got a lot of great songs on it."

"Have you listened to the Draco tape yet?"

I smile to myself. "It was the first one I played."

"I did wonder if a tape was a little too hipster for you. But now I know you like dorky old things just you wait for Christmas. I'll bring over a record player and maybe some 45s."

"Don't even joke about that," I laugh.

We talk on the phone for a while, just odds and sods of anecdotes and jokes, like we've been friends for the best part of the ten years we've known each other. He asks me about books and I supply him with a flurry of recommendations, much to his delight. I hope, at least. The call finally ends when Draco protests that he needs to eat some food otherwise he will explode. When we hang up, I realise we have been talking for almost two hours.

The rest of the day (and, really, the weekend) is spent in front of the television, reading new manuscripts, making notes, and marking whatever was left over from the week. I catch the news on Saturday night, avoid it on Sunday and read the online tabloids – you know, the utter rubbish that surfaces all over social media and crappy magazines.

There is another photo of Draco splashed in the magazine, and on social media, stepping out with a girl who certainly isn't me.

It's at this point (when I realise that I am frustrated with him having not told me what's going on) that I recognise that I absolutely need a bit of space from him. I won't ice him out, but I can't just reach out to him anymore. I have to be more… mature, I guess. It's certainly a good thing that I know I am about to be very busy.

Sure enough, the next two weeks pass in a total blur, and the marking is intense. We're two weeks away from half term, meaning that older students are prepping for important exams, so the younger students have an increased load of homework to prepare for the work they will need to do for exams. This is some new psychological method that was suggested to the Teachers' Guild three years ago, just before I started at my school. So far, so good.

School isn't just busy in terms of teacher workload, but there are new deadlines for the faculty trips. I'm being bothered pretty constantly for budget updates, and for proposals for trips – even though neither of those things are my job.

All of this time spent doing school stuff means that I don't have a lot of time to focus on other important things, like music and writing (even though that is a non-starter of ill-success). And I wasn't able to go out with Ginny and Angelina last week for cocktails, so that sucked.

When another report of Draco and a girl surfaces on twitter, I decide to veto the app altogether and avoid social media as much as possible.

Draco calls me on a Friday night, just as I am cooking a very late dinner after an utterly and disgustingly long day.

"Hey, I've got some exciting news," he says, barely waiting for me to respond. Instead of finding it endearing, I'm in a bad mood so it annoys me instantly.

"That's nice," I reply, mixing my pasta with one hand and holding the phone in the other. "Go on."

He takes a breath. "Okay, so I managed to get us tickets to an after-hours library thing. It was difficult to find, but I wrangled – businessman, you know. I heard about it and thought, this is perfect –"

"Sorry to cut you off, Draco, but what?" I ask, exhausted.

"Tickets, you and me, library after-dark. Innocently, of course." It sounds like he is flirting, but I am in no way in the mood for any kind of Draco antics. "It's tomorrow."

"I can't go," I tell him, feeling almost guilty.

"Oh," he says.

"I'm just too busy," I elaborate. "Everything has been totally crazy with school, and then work, and all the other crap."

"You should loosen up, spend some time away from work."

I almost drop my spoon.

"Loosen up? It's hard to loosen up when your life is a bit fucking busy, Draco. Not all of us own a company on a whim of inheritance."

There is a moment of silence in the call.

Maybe I was too harsh.

"That was unfair and you know that I work hard. I appreciate that you also work hard, and you're a very busy person. I just thought you might like a break." He sighs then, heavily. "I am angry, and offended, but I forgive you anyway."

I'm not even sure of the sound that escapes my mouth. All I know is that it is as irritated as I am, and after it happens, I have hung upon Draco. I feel instantly bad and call him back to apologise.

We don't talk for a little while, only occasionally swapping messages when something comes up that we think the other might find interesting or amusing (for instance, he sent me a photo of a dog wearing robes similar to the ones we wore at Hogwarts; apparently this dog belonged to Blaise, who firmly believed that the dog was a Hufflepuff). I'm glad for the distance from him, embracing a little breath in our friendship. I'm busy anyway, so I wouldn't have much time for him even if I was on better terms with him. Nevertheless, I miss him. Not that I'd tell him that, though.

Things are back to normal for about a month, and the time flies appropriately fast. I see Draco once as I drop off a book at his house. I text Bill a number of times, trying to find out where he is with staying in Norfolk a little more. He calls me G and tells me not to worry about him, which we both know won't stop me. I have lunch with Fred and George, coming away feeling a little too wrapped up in Weasley affairs. Through this, I find that my dislike (read: strong apparent hatred) for Ron has dwindled significantly. I feel good about that. And I work. I work a lot. Lesson plans, reading, writing, editing, staring at the piano in the room and daring it to get me to play something.

Some days I sit down and stand up again almost immediately, knowing that the day wasn't right and nothing good would come of my expecting to play a concerto that I invented in my own head.

I think I'm in a bit of a rut, in all honesty. I look over the email that Hilary sent me, open a new page for a new character, and end up with a Mary Sue that doesn't fit anything I could imagine writing. Then I google writing classes for adults, almost convincing myself that I have the time. One glance at my desk tells me otherwise and I close the tab again.

Things are just a bit bland.

I guess maybe I wonder sometimes whether Draco and I aren't talking because we argued, or because he's busy elsewhere. I feel like a damn schoolgirl again, worrying about a crush, and not knowing if the guy I like has a girlfriend. I try not to think about it really, and I become a little more easy-going and relaxed because of it.

School is good, for the most part. It's stressful, but then it's always stressful. At least, until half term.

Out of all the half terms the teachers are awarded in the academic year, October half term is my favourite. Not because I love Halloween (which I kind of do, but I generally pin that on my love for supernatural and magical characters) but because it's the least hectic holiday of the year, aside from the summer. There's still work to be done, but not nearly as much as there is at Christmas, or Valentine's week, or Whitsun.

Halloween falls on a Thursday this year, which I know is my mum's night off from whatever crazy hobbies and activities she does the rest of the week. I call her the night before, and text her the day of, to find out if she wants to come over and have an evening together. Dad usually goes out with his old friends for a few pints on Halloween. And, while Mum can be a total nightmare sometimes, I love her very much.

On the day itself I finish up a day of reading and marking with an episode of Vampire Diaries (one of my favourites from season eight). I log onto Facebook and involuntarily scowl at the photo of Natalie and Ron that pops up onto my feed first. Then I realise that I'm okay with it, the two of them dressed up in matching costumes from The Office – a show that Ron used to love making me watch and I never quite understood all the jokes.

I like the photo and close the laptop, ignoring a message that has popped up from Draco. I'm sure it's not important. Plus, if I was actually busy, I wouldn't have seen it anyway.

Dodgy logic, but fool-proof. No?

Sighing, I head upstairs to put on my own costume. It's a witch one that I found online on one of the more… appropriate sites for female dress-up. Mum comes through the front door as I'm adjusting the witch's hat, wondering if I like it or whether I can settle for the cloak and dress garb.

"Hi honey," she calls into the house at large. I run to the landing to wave at her and tell her I'll be there in just a minute. I'm actually kind of glad to see her wearing an online-store-bought doctor's outfit. It looks odd, compared to the scrubs that I know she has, but at least she's leaning a little towards the Halloween spirit. She says, "I'll put the wine in the fridge", and shuffles away, swinging her plastic stethoscope that must feel odd to a practising dentist.

I check my phone, see a few texts, and then decide to ignore them all altogether. I don't need the drama, and I definitely don't want it.

Despite the fundamental differences between my mother and I (although, Dad would say they're fundamental similarities – like our need for control and order), we get on really well at Halloween. We both like scary movies (Dad doesn't, and I've never been sure why), and we both love Halloween; carving pumpkins, handing out sweets, and trashy movies that remind us of childhood times.

We stack our plates with takeout for dinner and settle down for the first movie of the night: Practical Magic.

I remember the first time we watched it together was a few years after it came out; I was maybe ten, and Halloween outings were cancelled due to poor weather. Dad was out, doing something or other, and Mum sat with me in my costume, just like tonight, and we watched it together, eating the candy she would have given out to other trick-or-treaters. The film had made me want a sister, but afraid to fall in love. I don't think it's had a lasting effect on my psychology, which is positive, at least.

"Do you remember that one year we ate all the candy ourselves?" Mum asks, passing me something from the Celebrations box. It's a Malteser – my favourite. "Your Dad was out playing snooker, or avoiding Halloween whichever way possible. It was raining, and we had to stay in, and you were so gutted, in your little baseball outfit. It was a few weeks after your Dad got you to watch A League of Their Own."

I smile.

"Yeah," I muse. "I forgot about the baseball thing, though."

"One year we managed to dress your father up as well, and we tried to go as the Addams family, without much success."

"I thought he hated Halloween?"

Mum nods. "He does. He gave up for just one year though, as a gift to me."

"Why?" I ask.

She laughs. "I think he forgot to do the washing up, or take the bins out. He felt bad for some reason." Mum looks across to me then, smiling at some memory that I don't know about.

After Practical Magic is over, we watch Hocus Pocus, laughing at the bad effects, drinking the wine, eating candy. Eventually we break out the ice cream and biscuits, not really caring about health – yes, I know, parents are dentists, but my mum loves Halloween too much to ignore. We bond over food and drink, and conversations about boys and friends, and then she tries some yoga with me. We're midway through watching Stardust when Dad drives over to pick Mum up, who is draped in one of my blankets with a hot water bottle that I made for her.

He watches the end of the movie with us, because he's really a big softie who only likes the ends of films and not the build-up and tension.

As the credits start to roll, Dad stands up and gestures to Mum. She checks the time – I don't – and declares that it is late and they should get going. Dad kisses me on the cheek and squeeze my hand before heading outside to start the car, leaving me and Mum together in the hallway, in our ridiculous, cheap costumes, drunk as skunks, and extraordinarily well-fed.

"I love you," she says, booping my nose and pulling me in for a squeezing hug.

"I love you too," I reply, smiling into her mess of hair.

For a moment, I feel like a little kid again, dressed up, hugging my Mum. Then she breathes out a sigh and lets me go. I wave the car as it disappears down the road, a blurred light against the dark night.

I don't bother checking the time or clearing up. I merely turn off the television, turn off the lights, and pad upstairs to bed, suddenly exhausted. I'll leave the mess for Future Hermione to figure out.

The following morning greets me with rainy skies, as predicted by the weather app that told me today was the day not to go for a pleasant, long walk. I bake a cake (for myself, yes) and clear up the house. Not only the lounge is in a complete state of disarray, but everywhere is a huge mess. Mum calls and asks if she left her glasses here, halfway through the phone call realising that they are about three feet in front of her on the mantelpiece. I don't even open my laptop until after lunch when I decide it's probably a good idea to check my emails.

Six student emails. Ten from teacher reply threads. And one from Hilary Dunphy. It looks as though she has sent me a list of prompts to work on. She has obviously assumed (quite correctly) that my efforts of writing have been fruitless and joyless. Pessimistic? Perhaps a little.

I flip between social media and my emails, scrolling through the endless flowchart of despair that is twitter, and then the family photos and memories on Facebook. As I'm replying to my third or fourth student email, I finally open the message from Draco, which is a lot less frightening than I think I had anticipated. He simply says, 'Happy Halloween', with a cute little ghost emoji. I send him back a similar reply and then close the app, determined not to be distracted by wanting to talk to him. I have deemed my want to talk to him a terrible affliction, even if it does bring me joy. Drugs bring people joy, and they're not good. So, I need to at least try something akin to cold turkey to kick this habit.

Saying this, Draco isn't a drug. He's been a positive influence on my life over the last few months.

His being a positive aspect of life is solidified somewhat when I see him the following week on Firework's Night, invited by Harry to watch their village ones. It's an odd grouping, but altogether not too awkward. Ron and Natalie, Harry and Ginny, Luna and Neville, me and Draco, and then George is there with Angelina. Watching them, seeing how comfortable they are together, I wonder if they'll get back together. I also wonder whether Ginny set this whole thing up to try and push me and Draco just a little closer together.

Together, the group of us roast marshmallows and light sparklers to carry around and wave into silly words – for Ron who thinks he is a photographer. I catch eyes with Draco as Ron is trying to get Nat to spell love, and he doesn't quite capture it. I hope he's thinking the same as I am, that Callum would be able to do this in an instant.

Draco sits beside me as we roast marshmallows and I discover that he has a peculiar fondness for fire – not altogether surprising, but still entertaining. He sets his marshmallow on fire and then blows it out, claiming that he likes it burnt because then it's melted. I think I fundamentally disagree, but it was interesting to find out something like that about him.

I also discover that his fondness for fire does not extend to explosions in the sky. He covers his ears for the entire display and grimaces at the finale. Harry laughs with him about it afterwards, but like a puppy, he seems unsettled.

It's adorable, and I'm furious about it.

After Fireworks Night, I am on driving duty. I drive home Draco, George, and Angelina, after Ginny gives me an update on my Beetle ("it's doing great, it will just take time"). I told her not to worry about it. George and Angelina both go into his apartment block together. Draco and I make small-talk, talking about the night, and the air, and Halloween, and then the fact that we haven't spoken much lately. He asks me to go to dinner with him in a couple weeks' time, to catch up properly. I hesitantly accept, already nervous.

Then I tell myself to grow up, be a woman, and be a little more confident. Because this whole thing is getting ludicrous.